‘Get his head down! Maybe we can dislodge it that way!’ . . .
no good . . . it was too late . . . oh, God, the pain . . . in my chest . . . in my arms . . . oh, Jesus, they should be told . . .
‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Hold him, I can . . .’
The priest screamed and the sound was just an agonized gurgling, a clogged scream of mortal dread. His body threshed wildly, his face took on a bluish tinge . . .
. . . into Thy hands . . .
. . . his eyes reflected the fear of approaching death . . .
. . . I commend . . .
. . . the noise from his throat was continuous, a wet, rattling sound . . .
. . . my spirit . . .
. . . that died just seconds after he died . . .
. . . forgive me . . .
21
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
William Blake, ‘Jerusalem’
Cold. Bloody balls-chilling cold.
Fenn locked the car door and pulled the lapels of his dark overcoat tight around his neck. Vapour from his mouth spread a small round mist over the side window as he stopped to insert the key into the lock. He straightened and looked towards the church.
For once the entrance to the grounds wasn’t crowded with Pressmen. Probably yesterday’s funeral had satiated their appetites for a while.
He trudged towards the gate, the earth verge beside the road, long since trampled of its grass, hard and brittle. Jagged ridges crumbled beneath his boots. A solitary figure watched him warily as he approached.
‘Cold morning,’ Fenn called out.
The man nodded.
‘I’m Fenn, Brighton Evening Courier,’ the reporter said when he reached the gate.
‘I know you,’ replied the man, a volunteer helper to St Joseph’s, ‘but I’d better see your Press card.’
Fenn fumbled for his wallet, his fingers already stiff with the chill. He flicked it open and produced his identity card. The man grunted, satisfied.
‘I’ve come to see Monsignor Delgard.’
The man opened the gate. ‘Yes, he left word.’
Fenn stepped through. ‘Not so busy this morning.’
The man carefully closed the gate, then looked at the reporter. ‘They’ll show up later. Most are down at the convent.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘I’ve just passed it. There’s a few there, not many.’
‘I suppose they had their fill yesterday. Leeches.’ He stared at Fenn, no apology in his gaze.
‘Did you know Father Hagan well?’ the reporter asked, ignoring the slight.
‘He was a good man. A good, hard-working man. This was all too much for him, I suppose, with his weak heart. We’ll miss him.’
Fenn moved on leaving the man shaking his head, blowing his nose.
He went to the house and the door was opened by a young priest, one that the reporter either hadn’t seen or hadn’t noticed before. There were several at St Joseph’s now, acting as clerks, secretaries – crowd controllers.
The priest smiled and said in a soft, Irish accent, ‘Mr Fenn? Ah yes, Monsignor Delgard is at the church. Will I fetch him for you?’
‘It’s okay, I’ll go over.’
Fenn turned away and the priest watched him walk towards St Joseph’s for several moments before quietly closing the door.
The reporter shivered. There was a faint mist rising up against the old building and swirling around the scattered green-stained headstones. He knew the freshly-dug plot was on the other side, a secluded place in the graveyard close to the boundary wall, and felt no desire to see it. Watching Father Hagan’s coffin lowered into its frigid pit had disturbed him as much as when his parents, both dying within weeks of each other, one of cancer and the other, like the priest, of heart disease, were buried. It was as though the covering of earth were really the final and irrevocable consummation of life, the moment of death itself just the first phase. He had known others whose deaths were premature (didn’t death always seem premature, even among the aged – not many were ever quite ready) but none had affected him in this way. It had been understandable with his mother and father, for they had died when he was still in his teens and their mutual parents/son affection had not had time to sour; but the priest had been almost a stranger, had even seemed to dislike Fenn. Perhaps it was because he had tried, and failed, to save the priest’s life that he felt the loss so much. But then there was little he could have done anyway, for the post-mortem had revealed that Hagan had died of a heart attack; the meat he had swallowed may have started the priest’s initial panic, but it was hardly big enough to have choked him. So why his own guilt which compounded the sense of loss? It was a question to which Fenn had no answer.
The church doors were closed and he twisted the heavy black metal ring to open one side. It was bitterly cold outside, but the church interior had a special chill to it. He closed the door and walked towards the altar, towards the black figure sitting near the front.
Monsignor Delgard did not turn around at the reporter’s approach; his eyes studied the stained-glass window above the altar-piece, but his gaze was inwards.
Fenn sat next to the priest. ‘Monsignor Delgard?’
The priest continued to stare. ‘What is happening here?’ he said, and the words were not directed at the reporter.
‘Sorry, what was that?’
The priest blinked and said, ‘I don’t understand what is happening to this church, Mr Fenn. I don’t understand why Father Hagan died, why he was so afraid.’
‘Was he afraid?’
‘Oh yes. He was in mortal fear.’
‘He was ill.’
‘Yes, he was ill. But something more. Something else took his strength.’
‘I’m not following you.’
The priest sighed and lowered his face. He turned to the reporter. ‘Do you believe in God, Mr Fenn?’ he asked.
Fenn was surprised at the question and a little embarrassed by it. ‘I think so. I’m not sure. Guess I haven’t given it enough thought.’
‘Everybody gives it enough thought, Mr Fenn. Are you reluctant to offend me because I’m a priest?’
‘No, it isn’t that. I’m really not sure, that’s all. I can’t believe in this great Father-figure in the sky, if that’s what you mean.’
‘There’s no need to. In fact, it would be rather naïve to think of Him as such. Let me ask you this, then: are you afraid not to believe?’
‘I suppose most people are.’
‘But you?’
‘Count me in with the crowd.’
‘Do you fear death because of past transgressions?’
‘No. I just hope when I get up there, He’ll accept my apology. Look, what’s all this got to do with Father Hagan?’
The monsignor returned his gaze to the altar. ‘He was a devout priest, a truly good man; yet he was afraid of dying.’
‘Maybe he had secrets you didn’t know of.’
‘Yes, we all have our secret shames. They’re usually trivial; important – shameful – only to ourselves. Strangely, I heard Father Hagan’s confession just the night before he died and I know he had nothing to fear.’
Fenn shrugged. ‘Just death alone is enough. It’s a big leap and no guarantee of a soft landing. Or any landing at all. It doesn’t matter how strong your beliefs are, how deeply religious you may be, there’s no guarantee been given, right?’
‘Not quite true, Mr Fenn, but I take your point.’
‘So when it came to it, Father Hagan was no different from the rest of us – scared of the pain and a little apprehensive of the Great Moment of Truth.’
‘Father Hagan was afraid of what he would leave behind.’
Fenn looked puzzled.
‘He was afraid of what was happening to his church.’ The big priest turned to face the
reporter once again, leaning one elbow on the backrest of the bench, his long fingers clasped together. ‘You know, he hardly slept at all after the first so-called miracle. For some reason he no longer felt secure in his own church grounds.’
‘I noticed his appearance was getting worse each time I saw him; I put it down to general ill-health, though.’
‘You met him for the first time when you found the child in the field, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. And he didn’t look the picture of health then. But like I say, he grew worse each time I saw him. I thought it was all the pressure that’d been laid on him.’
‘He was undergoing great mental stress long before that, I’m afraid. During my stay here we had lengthy discussions about St Joseph’s, the child, Alice Pagett, and her visions. And about Father Hagan himself. He was a troubled man.’
‘Did his, er, assignment in Hollingbourne have anything to do with his troubles?’
Delgard’s features sharpened. ‘Who told you of that?’
‘Nobody. I just remembered the uncomfortable silence at the Press conference when a reporter from that area asked him about it. What was the problem, or is it still a big secret?’
The priest sighed. ‘With your tenacity I’m sure you would find out sooner or later. It’s all in the past and really not very important.’
‘So if it isn’t, tell me.’
‘On the understanding it will go no further?’
‘Absolutely.’
Delgard was satisfied. If he refused to tell, Fenn would be even more interested and would dig around until he raked up something; this way he was sworn to secrecy because of their ‘off the record’ agreement a few nights before.
‘Father Hagan was young, a novice, when he was sent to Hollingbourne,’ he began. ‘He was uncertain of himself, but hard-working, eager to learn. And he was vulnerable.’ Delgard fell silent and Fenn grew impatient.
‘Are you trying to tell me he had an affair with one of the parishioners?’
‘Not exactly. Not exactly an affair and not with one of his parishioners.’ Delgard shook his head sadly. ‘He . . . he formed an attachment towards his senior priest.’
‘Oh, Jes—’
‘There was no sexual involvement, let me make that quite clear. If that had been the case, then neither one would still be in the priesthood.’
‘Then why—?’
‘Rumours spread. A small place where things are noticed. Affection – deep affection – couldn’t go unnoticed. It came to the attention of the bishop of that particular diocese and he quickly stepped in, fortunately before the situation could develop.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but just how do you know it hadn’t?’
‘Both priests would have confessed the moment they were confronted.’
‘You’ve got a high opinion of human character.’
‘They wouldn’t have lied.’
‘So Father Hagan was assigned elsewhere.’
‘Yes. The other priest – his name isn’t important – left the parish some time later. I know what happened had tortured Father Hagan throughout his ecclesiastical career, and I also know such temptation was never succumbed to again. He buried himself in work and prayer.’
‘But the guilt was always there?’
‘He was a sensitive man. I don’t believe he ever purged himself of the guilt.’
‘That’s something your religion dotes on, isn’t it?’ It was difficult to keep the rancour from his voice.
‘An unkind remark, Mr Fenn, and not true. However, a debate on the theosophical ideals of the Roman Catholic Church would be rather pointless at this moment. Let’s confine ourselves to the topic of Father Hagan and his fears for this church.’
‘That’s something that’s been puzzling me since the night he died. He said there was something wrong with St Joseph’s and you seemed to be in agreement.’
‘Look around you, Mr Fenn. Does it seem dark in here to you?’
‘Well . . . yeah. But it’s misty outside, the light’s pretty poor.’
‘Now close your eyes, tell me what you feel.’
Fenn closed his eyes.
‘What do you feel?’
‘Stupid.’
‘Don’t. Just think of the church, think of where you are.’
He didn’t like it. He didn’t like having his eyes closed inside the church.
‘No!’
His eyes snapped open and he looked at the priest in surprise. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what made me shout.’ He shivered. ‘I . . . I don’t know what happened.’
‘Did you feel an atmosphere?’ Delgard prodded gently.
‘No, I felt nothing.’ He frowned. ‘Christ, that was it! I felt nothing. It’s empty in here. I don’t mean it’s empty of people . . . but what was it you said the other night? Something about the church being spiritually devoid . . .’
‘That’s exactly what I said. You felt it too.’
‘I . . . I don’t know. It’s cold, and it’s creepy, let’s face it. But there’s something creepy about any empty church.’
‘Not to a man of the cloth. A priest finds only tranquillity in an empty church, a place to pray, to meditate. There is no such peace here, just a sense of desolation.’ Delgard shifted from his position, sliding forward to the edge of his seat and resting his clasped hands over the seat in front. Fenn studied the man’s profile, the high-bridged nose, the firm chin, the deep furrows on his brow. Only one heavy-lidded eye was visible from that angle and there was a sadness in its gaze, a weariness reflected from within. When the priest spoke again, his voice was strong, deep, but the inner sorrow was somehow contained in its timbre.
‘If Alice truly had a Visitation, then the presence of the Holy Spirit would be overwhelming inside this place.’
‘You said yourself a church is just a building made of stone,’ Fenn said.
‘I meant that it was a physical container that could be drained of its contents just like any other container. Bishop Caines should have understood that. This church has been drained.’
‘I don’t get it. How can you tell?’
‘You only have to feel. Just as you did a few moments ago. Father Hagan had been going through the same trauma for many weeks, only his perception was greater, his feelings stronger. You noticed yourself how he was changing physically, how his vitality was being sapped.’
‘The man was ill. His heart . . .’
‘No. His life-force was being drained just as the spiritual essence of his church was being drained. I should have been aware sooner, I should have realized what was happening when he told me of his doubts. He didn’t believe the cures were miraculous, Mr Fenn. Nor did he believe Alice saw the Blessed Virgin. At first he wasn’t sure. Alice had always been such a good child, an innocent who liked nothing better than to help her mother in her work at St Joseph’s. He’d known her since she was a baby—’
‘Before she was struck deaf and dumb?’
‘Oh yes. He arrived in the parish just before she was born. He watched her grow, gave her her First Communion, encouraged her to play with the other children despite the disability. Yet, towards the end . . . these last few weeks . . . he was afraid of her.’
‘Afraid of an eleven-year-old kid?’
‘You were there at the convent last Sunday.’
‘Sure. She was sick.’
‘Before that. The way Father Hagan looked at her.’
‘You’re right, he was scared. With everything that’s happened since, I’d forgotten. He looked terrified.’ Fenn tapped thoughtfully on the bench. ‘But he was cracking up,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Monsignor Delgard, I don’t mean to be disrespectful to him. But you know yourself his hinges were loosening. He was just about ready to fall apart.’
‘That may be so, but for good reason. The stress he was suffering would have been too much for any man.’
‘You mean the publicity—’
‘I mean nothing of the sort. That was only part of it. I
’m talking of the mental anguish he was going through, knowing his church was being raped, knowing a child was being used—’
‘Hey, wait a minute. This is all getting a little far-fetched, isn’t it?’
The priest smiled, but it was a grim smile. ‘Yes, Mr Fenn. Yes, you would think so, and I can’t say that I blame you. You’re a born cynic and I think it’s probably the cynics who suffer least in this world.’ He regarded the reporter with eyes that held pity in them. ‘Or perhaps they suffer most, who can say?’
Fenn swung round in the seat, facing the altar, away from the priest’s gaze.
‘It’s your very cynicism that may help in this matter, Mr Fenn,’ he heard Delgard say.
He slowly turned his head to look at the priest again.
‘You’re not a great believer in anything, are you?’ Delgard said. ‘You’ve no deep religious beliefs, you have no family, no wife—’
‘How do you know that? You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Oh, but I do. I’ve had a long discussion about you with Miss Gates, you see.’
‘Sue? She wouldn’t . . .’ His words trailed off as the priest nodded.
‘Susan is a regular visitor to the church nowadays. I’m afraid she’s very confused about you at the moment, Mr Fenn.’
‘Yeah, I’d noticed. But why should she tell you about me?’
‘Because I asked.’ Delgard’s voice became brisk. ‘I need your help. I found out as much as possible about you – firstly, because of the association you now have with the Church under Bishop Caines’ edict, and secondly, because I think you may be able to help in other ways.’
‘You’re losing me again.’
‘Your employer tells me you’re a good journalist. A troublesome one, but basically sound. Apparently you have an enquiring mind or, as your news editor puts it, a snooper’s nose. He wasn’t very complimentary about other aspects of your character, unfortunately, but that does not concern me greatly.’
‘I can imagine what he said.’
‘Good. So you and I are both aware of your faults.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘It was Susan who told me you had a clinical, open mind towards most things, especially where your work was concerned. I must admit, having read your first article on Alice and St Joseph’s, I thought you rather too emotional, hardly objective at all. But she explained that to me, in fact made me realize just how objective you could be. It was somewhat perverse, but I suppose I should respect your opportunism in some way. You didn’t believe in what you wrote, although you wanted your readers to believe. You very skillfully sensationalized the story without giving any clear credence to what happened. It’s only on second reading and with some knowledge of the author that one can detect the deliberate ambiguity of your statement. That was your objectivity: you wrote a crude, yet on the surface, sincere piece of journalism to promote your own interests. In other words, you wanted a scoop. And that you surely got.’
Shrine Page 21
